


What you were vs What we are.

by HarleyMischief



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Dating, Fluff, M/M, Mycroft Being Mycroft, POV Greg, POV Mycroft Holmes, Trust Issues, mystrade
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-12
Updated: 2017-01-12
Packaged: 2018-09-17 02:21:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9299816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HarleyMischief/pseuds/HarleyMischief
Summary: Sherlock's gotten his act together. Greg has accidentally asked Mycroft Holmes out for dinner. Somethings' work out and other's just don't. That's how it works when you're kind of - sort of - falling in love.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rikulupin](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=rikulupin).



> Tags are likely to change. Explicit rating for later chapters. This was written for rikulupin.tumblr.com who asked for some Mystrade. I had intended to do a one shot and then ideas just exploded in my mind. 
> 
> I'm currently taking fic prompts for most ships in the Sherlock fandom so get in touch - mychaoticvictor.tumblr.com

It’s the last day of July and the weather is particularly humid. He can feel the edge of his shirt collar rubbing a red mark against his throat and he’s sweating. The fan in his office gave up the ghost last summer and he hadn’t thought to replace it. Greg doesn’t want to go to his meeting that afternoon, he particularly does not want to walk the half mile to Whitehall in this heat but he refuses to take a car somewhere only fifteen minutes away on foot and taking the tube from St James’s Park to Westminster would be torturous at this time of day. He sits up from his desk and grabs his suit jacket , his white sleeves are already rolled up past his elbows to try and get some air against his skin though there is little of it moving when he finally steps outside into the sunshine.  
He shouldn’t be complaining – but he’s British, which means he’s very good at it. The walk itself is pleasant enough as far as the view is concerned – close to the river and the north bank, it takes him past Westminster Abbey and Downing Street, which are crowded with tourists. Each person that passes him wears a different expression – he thinks that Sherlock would have something to say about each and every one of them – in the same thought he thanks God that Sherlock isn’t there doing just that. It’s just nice sometimes – not knowing.  
Greg meets with Mycroft Holmes on a bi-monthly basis, its rarely ever awful though on a few occasions, especially during Sherlock’s – more troubled years…He feels as if he’s gained a certain amount of respect from him – rightly so. Though he wasn’t sure when exactly he had signed up to be this – semi-babysitter for a wild unpredictable genius. He did care though – about Sherlock. There was something so completely lost about him and Greg found that endearing or at least he did when he wasn’t thinking about slapping him across the face.  
Even the waiting area outside of Mycroft’s office was – insane. Over the top as most 17th century royal palaces would tend to be. It suited Mycroft Holmes to a tee or perhaps it didn’t. In actual fact Greg supposed even after ten years of acquaintance he really didn’t know much about Mycroft at all. Perhaps he lived in Elephant and Castle in a flat share with six drama students. He snorted and looked up – the disapproving eyes of Mycroft’s secretary pinned him and he looked back down again.

“He’ll see you now, Detective.” She said after a moment in a cool, unfeeling voice.

Greg nodded and stood up, making a last ditch effort not to look like a sweaty creased mess as he walked through into the office. Mycroft stood upon his entry and of course there was never a man so put together even in thirty degree heat. They didn’t shake hands. Mycroft didn’t shake hands. Greg took the seat as Mycroft nodded towards it. At least the office was cool, well air conditioned and to the left was a wide window showing an almost picturesque image of the Houses of Parliament. 

“Bloody hot, isn’t it?” Greg says before he can stop himself.

“Yes, quite.” Mycroft pauses. “It’s strange isn’t it – how people resort to conversing about the weather whenever they feel uncomfortable. How very – patriotic of you, to hold up such a national tradition.”  
Greg raises an eyebrow and feels just a little idiotic but that’s part and parcel of sitting opposite a Holmes. He’s used to it.  
Mycroft’s fingers are tapping at the plastic covering of a blue paper file and the noise is rhythmic, Greg looks down at it and see’s it has his name and date of birth typed across the first page. 

“Anything interesting?” He nods towards the file.

“No, not really.” Mycroft answers with a tight smile. 

Greg wants to flip him off but he doesn’t. He values his life. 

“You know – I am a very busy man so unless – “

Mycroft holds up a hand to interrupt him and Greg stops almost immediately. He thinks he’s probably said the wrong thing because yes he is busy but no – he isn’t running the country.

“I understand you have an important job and I appreciate you taking the time to meet me. I’ve always been grateful for your unwavering concern in regards to my brother’s welfare.” 

Mycroft stops but Greg’s feels as if he isn’t quite finished. 

“Yeah…” Greg starts. “Well he’s a mate isn’t he? Like a weird mate you don’t socialise with unless someone’s died.” He shrugs. “ Anyway it’s not – he’s got John now and he’s not using so I don’t really do anything.”

“Yes, Doctor Watson has been very helpful.” Mycroft almost says to himself. “And I think – from what I can gather…” He waves a hand vaguely somehow trying to express the omniscience of his surveillance. “I find myself able to deliver pleasant news for once. I should think – or at least I very much hope that this will be the last time we meet." He pauses and corrects himself. "The last time we meet in this regard."

Greg’s eyes narrow as he fixes what Mycroft is saying in his head. He supposes the man is right; Sherlock has grown up considerably in the past few years. He’s become more than just a machine of knowledge but this living – feeling being. Greg realises then that he’s quite proud of him. 

“I didn’t know I was that annoying.” He tries to joke but Mycroft just blinks across at him. 

“On the contrary – I find I’ve rather enjoyed your bi-monthly visits. It makes a nice change to meeting with elected officials and – well…” Mycroft shrugs. 

Greg could have fallen off of his chair, did Mycroft bloody Holmes just pay him a compliment? 

“Right. Yeah. Thanks.” Greg clears his throat. “So – that’s it then….”

“Not quite. I don’t feel it quite right to send you off without properly rewarding you. There have been a fair few times where I fear, had it not been for your involvement, I wouldn’t have a brother at all.”

He seems – melancholy. Truly, upset by the very idea of being without Sherlock. That’s normal for brothers of course but – all they do is argue. 

“Of course. You don’t need to give me anything – of course I did that – I’ll do it anyway. Even now. Even if he doesn’t need me to.” And he means it. 

“You’ve been in your current position for five years now – it’s not an exceptional amount of time but I believe you would make a very capable Chief Inspector.”

Greg’s mouth falls open when he realises that Mycroft is offering him a promotion. 

“I hadn’t really – “ 

He had thought about it, about the extra work and the longer hours when he hardly has any free time now as it was. 

“Of course you have – everyone does. I would – if there were anywhere else to go.”

Greg has a feeling that Mycroft is trying to joke with him but he’s a little too wrong footed to laugh.

“With all due respect, Mr Holmes.” He pauses. “Mycroft. I really quite like my job as it is. Maybe – in the future yeah when I’ve gotten all I can from this position.”

Mycroft nods. 

“I understand.” 

Greg can’t tell if Mycroft is disappointed or not.

“Still I would feel better if you let me thank you in some way. It is the polite thing to do.” Mycroft frowns across at him as if he’s trying to deduce what to by him for Christmas. 

“I mean if it’s bugging you that much let’s get dinner or something. You can take me somewhere I haven’t got a hells chance in affording on my own. We’ll drink really expensive scotch and then we can call it even.” 

It takes him a few moments to realise what he’s just done. That’s he’s gone and asked Mycroft out. Out, out? Jesus. It takes Mycroft a long time to answer, or at least it feels like it does. 

“Very well. If I knew you would be so easily pleased I would have suggested it months ago.” 

Mycroft offers a tight smile but he could swear there’s a layer of something else behind it.

“Yeah well – I’m obviously so intimidatingly attractive that you were too nervous.” Greg teases.

Mycroft laughs. Has he ever heard Mycroft laugh before? Greg wants to make it happen again and he isn’t sure why. 

“Don’t get too ahead of yourself, Detective. “ The phone rings and Mycroft's eyes flash to the console on the table to check the number. “I apologise but this is rather important. I will get my secretary to contact you in regards to our – outing.”

Greg nods and very nearly says something else but doesn’t quite manage to spit it out. The next thing he knows he's standing by the river musing over what just happened. They weren’t going on a date because that was ridiculous. Because Mycroft didn’t date anyone. Or do anything. As far as he knew the only thing Mycroft actually did was take phone calls and spy on his brother. And apparently go out for dinner. Shit.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dinner starts off awkward but it ends well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the kudos and the comments. You're all so lovely. Enjoy!

The call Greg receives from Mycroft’s secretary is something much akin to setting up a dental appointment and it isn’t until that morning that he even knows where he is expected to be. He’d been expecting something – upmarket, probably a place where he would never in his life get a reservation. Fera at Claridge’s for eight. Claridge’s. Greg thinks that even his best suit would probably fall to ash the moment he steps foot into the building. 

The air outside is pleasant, there’s a light breeze washing away the heat of that day’s humidity. There’s still some light in the sky but it’s the kind that manipulates the clouds into a reddish orange glow. Though just because it’s nice outside – that doesn’t mean he’s going to walk all the way to Mayfair. He has a small argument with himself as to whether he should drive but he’s already had one scotch to stop him from being nervous and he knows it would be idiotic to pretend he wouldn’t have at least three more before the end of the night. Greg splurges and walks from his flat to the main road to hail a cab. 

The suit he has on isn’t ugly or particularly inexpensive. It just isn’t – Claridges. It’s a dark grey jacket with red lining on the breast pocket and the inside panels of the jacket itself. With a white shirt and grey suit trousers. He doesn’t wear it to court; in fact he had brought it specifically to attend a wedding, which never happened. It fits him well and he appreciates his figure, it’s light so he isn’t sweating which is always a positive. 

Greg has tried not to think much about exactly how the evening will go but now he’s in the taxi on the way to the restaurant – well it’s a little hard not to imagine two hours of awkward conversation. Will they just talk about Sherlock? That’s what they usually talk about. He doesn’t want to. Sherlock was a prick yesterday and he gave him a rather harsh telling off. Greg doesn’t regret it for a second. He doesn’t think Mycroft will want to talk about sport and he’s almost certain Mycroft can’t talk about his work. Greg has some idea of what Mycroft Holmes does – or at least what it encompasses. 

He isn’t at all ready when the car stops in Mayfair and he has to get out, looking around. The buildings either side of the hotel are red brick, well maintained. The bar around the corner is called The Running Horse – he’s been there a few times with the Superintendent. It’s so expensive it hurts. He tries not to look at the silver framed menu board – he doesn’t want to know.

The doorman greets him with a tight smile – he looks like a penguin. Greg smiles. He walks through the hotel reception and follows the decorated signs through to the restaurant where he mentions Mycroft’s name to the hostess and is immediately walked through to a table to the back of the room. It’s stunning really – with high white ceilings boasting decorated stain glass panels every few feet or so – a large centrepiece protruding from the centre of the restaurant, a long, spindling tree with bare branches. The walls are papered with an expensive striped grey and the lighting is just enough for the early evening. 

He wishes he hadn’t been early and that Mycroft was here – but at the same time he’s glad Mycroft isn’t here because he has no idea what he’s going to say to him when he turns up. Greg doesn’t have long to think about it either because before the waiter can even ask him if he would like a drink while he waits, Greg hears Mycroft’s voice from just behind him and then watches as the man sits down opposite. 

“I hope you haven’t been waiting long.”  
Greg shakes his head – Mycroft looks impeccable as always. He wonders if the man has come straight from his office though something is off, he smells…sweeter.

“No. Literally minutes actually. I was just admiring…” 

He motions around awkwardly with his hand before letting it rest lamely back on the table. 

“Just so.” Mycroft offers a small smile. 

Greg’s lets Mycroft order them drinks because one look at the menu and he’s baffled by the extensive spirit list.

There is a silence and it is definitely awkward. Greg’s eyes are fixed across the room on a stand-alone lamp which – isn’t at all interesting. Mycroft clears his throat and Greg realises he’s wound himself so tight that it almost makes him jump. 

“I don’t want to talk about Sherlock.” He suddenly blurts out.

Mycroft looks across at him as if he’s grown a third arm.

“No – I suppose not. Why would we talk about Sherlock?”

“Well it’s – I don’t know.” Greg swallows hard. “I just don’t want to.”

“Did you have anything specific you wanted to discuss, perhaps you’ve written a list of suitable topics.”

Greg is about to respond when he realises that Mycroft is teasing him. He laughs softly instead and looks away.

“Alright I’m just a bit – I don’t know. We meet in your office and talk about work and Sherlock and – “

“But you have socialised with other people before I assume.”

“Well yeah but – “

“Contrary to what other people might believe, I am actually just a person.” Mycroft pauses. “Don’t tell anyone. I wouldn’t want them using it against me.”

Greg pretends to act shocked, he is a little. Maybe he had low key believe Mycroft was an android. 

“You’re secret is safe with me.”

Mycroft just nods and smiles in response as their drinks are delivered. He hasn’t even looked at the menu. Greg opens the embossed cover and looks over his options. There’s always that strange moment when people go for dinner and neither really know what to order. Will Mycroft have a starter? Would it be weird if he had a starter and Mycroft didn’t? Will Mycroft want dessert and if he does order a starter perhaps then he’ll be too full for dessert. Greg has to stop himself before he has a panic attack. 

“Order whatever you like. I personally prefer to finish off with something sweet.”

Mycroft Holmes reads minds, but then again Greg had already guessed that. 

“Right – so, have you eaten here before?”

Mycroft just hums and nods his head before closing his menu. 

“You’re uncomfortable.” Mycroft states plainly.

Greg suddenly feels very vulnerable. He already knows that Mycroft – well Mycroft knows everything but he doesn’t want to be told. 

“You look – very handsome.”

Greg almost chokes. His eyes go wide and he looks up into Mycroft’s face to gage his expression. Greg has a feeling he isn’t being teased. 

“Thanks – it’s erm…yeah.” 

Greg wonders if he’s blushing because if he is then Mycroft has noticed. Things break a little when the waiter takes their order and places a basket of artisanal bread between them with a small bowl of oil. Mycroft has already moved the folded napkin from the table to his lap and now Greg does the same. 

“You do to. Look nice I mean. You always – “

Greg takes a large gulp of scotch and before he can fully finish it off the waiter has replaced it with a fresh one. 

“You’ve been working today?” Greg asks.

“Every day. Although I left the office early which makes a pleasant change. I appreciated the opportunity to go home and freshen up before our – “

Greg has never seen Mycroft search for a word before. 

“Date.” Greg finishes for him. 

This time it’s Mycroft who looks surprised and Greg thinks maybe he’s grabbed the wrong end of the stick. 

“I suppose as far as the definition of such an activity goes then yes – yes it is . A date.”

Greg nods slowly.

“The last date I went on was a complete bloody disaster. I thought it was a sure thing as well.”

Greg shook his head. He tells the story and they both end up laughing, the air seems to have shifted some and though he isn’t expecting it he’s pleased when Mycroft offers an anecdote of his own. He laughs so hard his stomach hurts and he very nearly hits the waiter as he places their plates down on the table. 

The food is delicious – there’s isn’t much of it and he thinks he’ll probably be getting a burger on his way home but it tastes nice and Mycroft is, charming. Really charming. The rest of dinner goes just like that – talking about, about black and white movies, about Hitchcock and London parks. Greg was right – Mycroft isn’t into sports but it doesn’t matter. He’s having fun. More fun than he’s had in an age. 

They order dessert and a thought intrudes upon him that Mycroft’s lips probably taste like sugar and pears which would compliment the bitter, dark chocolate staining his own. 

“If you keep feeding me scotch I’m going to embarrass myself. “ 

“Ah. I only have them fill your glass when it is empty. You could simply drink slower.”

Greg snorts and mouths no way which in turn sees Mycroft release a low, amused chuckle. 

He’s about to say something else when he hears the familiar buzzing of a phone set to vibrate – he touches his jacket over the inside pocket before he realises Mycroft has already pulled out his own. He notices the exact moment his face changes. 

“I apologise. My brother – “ 

“It’s fine – well, I’m sorry you have to deal with it but – I don’t mind.”

Mycroft excuses himself and takes the call outside in the foyer. Greg amuses himself with what’s left in his scotch, looking up momentarily as the bill is set down upon the table. He’s nosy – so what. Greg looks around to make sure Mycroft is still nowhere in sight and looks at the total. He very quickly wishes he hadn’t. He straightens up and leaves the check where it is in the middle of the table – thinking if they have dinner again Mycroft might be disappointed when it’s Greg’s turn to pay. 

When the man comes back he looks harassed.

“Not good?” Greg asks. 

“I thought we weren’t talking about Sherlock, I’d rather like to keep it that way.”

Mycroft isn’t very forth coming with his emotions but Greg can tell he’s pissed off even if he won’t admit it. 

“Do you want to – come to mine and not talk about Sherlock?”

Greg isn’t sure why he’s asking – he doubts Mycroft would want to go anywhere near his place let alone sit on his second hand couch and drink his really nasty whiskey. 

Mycroft takes the bill, looks at in once then places it back down. He motions for the waiter and tell him to charge it to his account. Of course he has an account. Greg watches as he takes out his phone again and taps away before storing it back in his inside pocket. 

“The car will be here in a few minutes. How could I pass up the opportunity to not talk about Sherlock?”

Mycroft smirks and it flips his stomach. Really like – teenage fucking butterflies. Weird. 

Greg fixes his eyes on the lights and the moving traffic as the car winds along. They don’t talk but it isn’t uncomfortable – Mycroft is working on his phone or so Greg assumes. He supposes there isn’t much rest in Mycroft’s position. He finds himself wondering if the man takes sugar with his tea, if he likes eating breakfast in the morning or if he skips it and has a large lunch. Greg wonders briefly why he cares. Greg glances over at him and their eyes meet. The phone is gone and he feels Mycroft’s gaze bore into his own, as if he’s reading words from the surface of his brain. He should be used to it after all this time, after working with Sherlock, but he isn’t.

“Stop it.” Greg murmurs. “You’re doing that thing. Deducing.”

Mycroft shakes his head. 

“There’s a difference between looking and deducing.”

Greg snorts. 

“I thought it was all the same to you?”

“To Sherlock, maybe.”

“We’re not talking about Sherlock, remember?” Greg reminds him.

Mycroft nods. 

“I’m not like my brother.”

Greg cocks his head.

“In what way?”

He has to wait a moment for Mycroft to answer, but when he does Greg can’t stop his cheeks from blushing. 

“Because I know a good thing when I see it.”


End file.
